nin.. PS 3.^ 4 5 
 
 Book A^3S)h 
 
 Copyright N?. 
 
 I (^ 
 
 A 
 
 COHMGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 GARDENS OVERSEAS 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 THE PRISON SHIPS 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 THE PILGRIM KINGS 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 THE HISPANIC 
 
 ANTHOLOGY 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 THOMAS WALSH 
 
 NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY 
 
 LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD 
 
 MCMXX 
 
^ 
 
 PrP^ Ait 
 
 1^6^ 
 
 <\ 
 
 Copyright, 19 19, by 
 JOHN LANE COMPANY 
 
 ^fAK I 3 1220 
 
 Press o{ 
 
 J. J. Little & Ives Company 
 
 New York, U. S. A. 
 
 0)Ci.A566061 
 
TO 
 
 JOHN BUNKER 
 
 POET AND COMRADE 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Don Folquet ^ I3 
 
 Arifa "The Tree of Light" ... 67 
 
 MuRiLLo Paints "The Assumption'* . 80 
 
 Mother Goose Sonnets 89 
 
 humpty dumpty 90 
 
 Little Miss Moffet 91 
 
 The Sprats 92 
 
 The Philosophers 93 
 
 To Banbury Cross 95 
 
 Bo-Peep 96 
 
 Madam O'Shoe 97 
 
 One Contrary 98 
 
 Boy Blue 99 
 
 On the Tree-Top 100 
 
 Mother Hubbard loi 
 
 In the Cafe Europa 103 
 
 The Saving Virtues 107 
 
 The Widowy Drone 109 
 
 An Autumn Song no 
 
 The Sea-Woman 1 13 
 
 ix 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Brown-Stone Row ii6 
 
 Catullus Anent His Lesbia . . . 119 
 
 Guitar Song 120 
 
 To Joyce Kilmer — July 30, 1918 . . 121 
 
 The Sigh for Deirdre 126 
 
 The Mothers of Heaven . . . . 128 
 
 Ad Limina 130 
 
 Nightingale TO THE Lark .... 131 
 
 Algonkin Spring . 132 
 
 Fulfilment 135 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 I 
 
 The apple orchards on the hills were white 
 
 With blossoms, and the languid clouds 
 beyond 
 
 Lifted like polar mountains in the blue. 
 
 There where the little road went down the 
 vale 
 
 Beside the River Argens, Folquet heard 
 
 The springtime murmuring across the 
 lands, 
 
 The chirruping of birds, the herdsman's 
 voice. 
 
 The human echoes from the fields afar. 
 
 And yet he came not from his hidden lodge 
 
 Among the trees, but with a thoughtful 
 eye 
 
 He marked the throngs of dames and gal- 
 lants pass 
 
 Upon their dappled palfreys, brightly gay, 
 
 Under the blosmy archway of the road, 
 13 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 Even though at times amid their mirth a 
 
 lute 
 Struck careless off a broken stave or two 
 Of his auhade "The Blossom Time of 
 
 Spring" — 
 Struck careless — but amid his sombre 
 
 mood 
 He hardly heard, so deep was he in 
 
 thought. 
 What had come o'er him — once the gayest 
 
 voice 
 Of all the choristers of love — that he 
 Had fallen from grace within so many a 
 
 bower, 
 And, half-forgotten, felt no joy awake 
 At May's returning? — he whose song of 
 
 old 
 Was fabled for its springtime melody; 
 He who once led the fairest troop afield, 
 Won beauty's rarest favors and the name 
 Of "Prince of Poets" in the northern 
 
 lands; 
 He, for whose smile the grandest dame 
 
 was feign 
 To pledge her honor, for whose meed of 
 
 song 
 
 14 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 The haughtiest lord forgot his lowly birth, 
 
 And bade him welcome to his halls of 
 state. 
 
 Nigh fifteen years had passed since that 
 spring morn 
 
 When he, a stripling grown, full tall and 
 fair 
 
 Came first to join the hillside jousts of 
 song. 
 
 He could recall the older singers' smiles. 
 
 As in his heavy robes of silk and furs, 
 
 His chain of gold, his jewelled cap and 
 belt. 
 
 He, the rich trader's son of old Mar- 
 seilles, 
 
 Struck his first preludes as they moved 
 aside. 
 
 And how the listless dames with sly re- 
 mark 
 
 Measured his lithesome form, and subtly 
 scanned 
 
 His cheek half blushing, and would meet 
 his glance 
 
 Soft with the spring and shaded 'neath the 
 sweep 
 
 Of ebon lashes and entangled hair. 
 15 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 And when the Countess at his salutz' close 
 Leant from her rustic throne and smiling 
 
 bade 
 Him welcome, 'twas the very breath of 
 
 heaven; 
 He felt his life Indeed begin; the warmth 
 Of all his boyhood leaped Into his eyes. 
 Then when the gallant company arose 
 Upon her signal, moving toward her halls, 
 As in a trance he fed upon her grace, 
 Trembled at every pulsing of her breast. 
 With heart's suspense at each intending 
 
 step; 
 Until the kindly Abbot at his ear 
 Whispered, — "Son, take thy lute and fol- 
 low, where 
 Beauty and Heart's Delight and Glory 
 
 call."^ 
 So from that day he sat beside her chair, 
 And marked the envious lordlings whisper- 
 ing round; 
 Heard the old poets singing of old days, — 
 Though she, the far-famed Magnet of 
 
 the North, 
 Lent ear to him alone. She was the sun 
 i6 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 That set his heart abloom, his songs broke 
 forth 
 
 Like morning blossoms. At their lady's 
 joy 
 
 Her maiden throngs took up and passed 
 along 
 
 The countersign till all the land was gay 
 
 Because Alazais placed her love in him. 
 
 In memory too came back that twilight 
 hour 
 
 When she within the tower with him alone 
 
 Said sweetly, — "Knight, you seek a lady's 
 love. 
 
 Yet never speak her name." And he re- 
 plied, — 
 
 "She Is too great a crown for my poor 
 heart 
 
 To wear, but it grows larger at the 
 thought 
 
 Of her."— "Thy modesty, Don Folquet, 
 well 
 
 Gives augury of thy success in love. 
 
 But scarcely in thy heart the passion glows. 
 
 There is a lady here that holds thee well 
 
 And fain would form thee for the cour- 
 tier's part. 
 
 17 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 Kneel thou and kiss my hand, for I do take 
 Upon me thine instruction." And he bent 
 Upon his knee, when she with sudden 
 
 hands 
 Clasped his young cheeks and pressed a 
 
 kiss upon 
 His boyish mouth. . . . Suddenly a deep 
 
 blush 
 Swept his whole body, head to foot, for 
 
 ne'er 
 Before, save at his mother's lips, had he 
 Known kisses, and the surging wave that 
 
 stirred 
 From novel passions threatened to o'er- 
 
 whelm 
 His senses. Then she smoothed his hair, 
 
 arranged 
 His pourpoint; tightened up his garter- 
 bands, 
 And promised him a gift of perfumed soap 
 To make his daily bath. Full soon a squire 
 And pawing steed she sent to wait him, 
 
 black 
 And sleek, below the tower stair, to bear 
 Him forth in Sire Barral's proud train, on 
 
 days 
 
 i8 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 Of hunt or festival. Ah, fleeting years 
 Of carollings at Eastertide; and groups 
 Beneath the apple-blossoms; of harvest- 
 songs 
 Amid the spurting grapes ; of Noel watch 
 At midnight and the crackling of the logs 
 In the great hall where they would sit 
 
 around! 
 And then the change — when all the world 
 
 of grace 
 Was tuneful with his praise, when dame 
 
 with dame 
 Competed for his singing, and even 
 
 Eudoxia, 
 The Grecian emperor's daughter, strove 
 
 in vain 
 To lure him to her amorous northern 
 
 towers ! — 
 He had achieved the triple crowns — held 
 
 gold 
 In plenteous store for every need; and 
 
 fame 
 Fulfilling all his dreams of song; and love, 
 The fairest hand in Christendom had 
 
 signed 
 
 19 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 That he might hope; the lips to which 
 
 noblesse 
 And courtesy gave primal place had 
 
 pledged 
 Him servitor with the solemn kiss that 
 
 made 
 His sovereignty in love's imperial courts. 
 But yet, the change, that 'mid it all began 
 Within his heart; the voice that ceaseless 
 
 asked, — 
 "Why sing — there is no more to gain; why 
 
 hoard — 
 Thou canst dispense no more; why love, 
 
 poor moth, — 
 Thy silken web is spun but to impede 
 The wing with which thy soul would fain 
 
 escape. 
 Thou art like some poor Paynim maid who 
 
 longs 
 To change her freedom for the latticed 
 
 bowers 
 Behind the Soldan's citadels; who when 
 She finds her warmest wish fulfilled, at 
 
 last 
 Amid the gardens of her soul's desires, 
 20 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 Finds herself also changed, and sighs in 
 
 vain 
 For desert wildness 'mid her golden 
 
 cage." 
 Yes, through it all the solemn voice kept 
 
 on 
 Though he would twang his gayest string 
 
 and lead 
 Gallants and ladles, through his maddest 
 
 routs, 
 Thinking to still it — but in vain. And 
 
 when 
 Upon the castle terrace in the moon 
 He struck the oldtime serenades of love 
 His fingers half refused the amorous task 
 From which onetime they hardly were re- 
 strained; 
 The glowing passion and luxuriant wealth 
 Of Fancy faded from his verse and left 
 Dry wisdom to infuse his pohshed tropes 
 And metres stately cold as colonnades. 
 That left the heart as cold. And when 
 
 the hand 
 He sought was granted to his lips, he 
 
 found 
 A pleasure half malign to read the bone 
 Zi 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 And sinew through its velvet white, and 
 
 felt 
 Distaste at all the courtly mockery, 
 Like a sick eye upon the senseless flowers. 
 So it had been these latter years, until 
 The mood upon him showed athwart the 
 
 mask 
 Gay years and forms had set upon him, till 
 The smile with which he opened every 
 
 heart 
 Grew sharp and knowing, and the soulful 
 
 eye, 
 Opulent of vision, lost its glow and showed 
 At times a rodent craft and scorn of all. 
 And soon the ears that harkened him alone 
 Craved various entertainment of the lutes 
 That came in wandering trains unto the 
 
 courts — 
 Some Eastern jongleur in a Templar's 
 
 suite; 
 Some mime Italiot in an Abbot's court, — 
 And when he would rehearse some classic 
 
 theme, 
 Trace the awakening of the poet's soul. 
 Or point the silent path of contemplation, 
 
 22 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 Such vagrant roisterers would raise at 
 
 times 
 A rigadoon that set the hall afoot, 
 A mad stampida until one by one 
 His reverent group would steal to join the 
 
 crowd, 
 Whose riotous laughter gained and gained 
 
 until 
 It drove him from the court. — 
 
 And so he kept 
 Disdainful state within his little lodge 
 Between the hills where Argens flowing 
 
 smooth 
 Wound its fine silver spiral to the sea; 
 Where night and morning alternated calm; 
 Among his squires, a faithful lad or two. 
 He found the shining days beget remorse; 
 A heavy tome at nightfall by the lamp, 
 A glass with some wayfaring Crusader, 
 Or boon companion from the abbey near; 
 A frolic with his gray Italian hounds; 
 And now and then some jongleur faring 
 
 by 
 
 Would stay the night to raise the oldtime 
 songs 
 
 23 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 Or learn the new ones; or some graver 
 
 sage, 
 Come from the court or from some for- 
 eign land, 
 Bespoke him "Master" and did reverence 
 For some far prelate, lord or chatelaine, — 
 To this, to this alone his dreams had 
 
 ledl— 
 This promise of eternity of Fame 
 When all the idle singers of the day 
 Should be as though they never lived, or 
 
 sang. 
 The while his studied song — held now but 
 
 craft 
 And studious research — should be re- 
 ceived 
 As mould immortal of a mind supreme ! 
 How cold the heights to which his stars 
 
 had ledl 
 Now too, when through the apple-blossoms 
 
 came 
 The laughter bringing to his heart again 
 An oldtime flutter hardly stilled as yet, 
 Was It for him no more? Scarce thirty 
 years 
 
 24 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 Had passed upon his head, where not a 
 
 touch 
 Of gray was visible, his supple form 
 But for an added grandeur had exchanged 
 The lithesomeness of youth; the trace of 
 
 thought 
 Had but infused his eyes with greater fire 
 And marked him out among the chiefs of 
 
 men. 
 The field and tourney and the hunting days 
 Had set a touch of mastery in his mien, 
 While song and lady's bower had given 
 
 the grace 
 Of flowing vesture and unstudied pose. 
 With these was he to be forgotten? — no, 
 Although the prize seemed worthless, he 
 
 would play 
 The piteous game again, — tonight — to- 
 night. — 
 Yellow the moon upon the far campaign; 
 It was a night for love, — how many, oh, 
 How many such his memory harvested 
 In honey-stores ! — The bells struck out the 
 
 hour 
 Of nightly office from the distant tower; 
 The air was heavy with memorial scents 
 25 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 Of roadside blooms that rose as ghosts 
 
 again, 
 And o'er them hung in springtime Penta- 
 
 cost 
 The trailing fireflies with their tongues of 
 
 flame. 
 Soon up the pathways of the town his 
 
 steed 
 Began to bear him. Well the portals 
 
 knew 
 His stately mien; the castle court stood 
 
 wide 
 For days and nights of peace; the lighted 
 
 hall 
 Resounded with the chatter as of old; 
 The windows streamed aglow; the jesters' 
 
 bells, 
 The tuning lute, the laughter long and 
 
 hoarse 
 Of kitchen wenches with their amorous 
 
 swains 
 And guardsmen sounded 'round at his 
 
 approach. 
 Then the great doors swung open, and he 
 
 passed 
 From the blue phosphor into golden light. 
 26 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 Then the good Sire Barral cried welcome 
 
 hale ; 
 The ladies rose and curtsied; all the lutes 
 Grew silent, and the youthful singers 
 
 gazed 
 Reverent on his noble form; while awed 
 Stood strangers in the hall — a travelling 
 
 friar, 
 A jongleur bound for far Auvergne, a 
 
 Moor 
 Of Tripoli, a wealthy rabbin clad 
 In velvets, furs and heavy chain of gold. 
 The shaggy hounds glared long from 
 
 where they stretched 
 Along the pavement, where the pages 
 
 scarce 
 Had ceased their boyish gambols, and the 
 
 swish 
 Of silks and velvets, and the play of pearls 
 And merry eyes with light; the scent of 
 
 cloves 
 And jonquils, — all, so framed within 
 The blackened oak and carving of the hall, 
 Looked so familiar that It scarcely seemed 
 A fortnight since he first beheld the scene. 
 27 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 And she — Alazals — with her bright-eyed 
 
 maids 
 Around her, with exquisite courtliness 
 
 made sign 
 For room for him; the dwarf and minstrel 
 
 youth 
 Withdrew, setting a cushion by her side. 
 He gazed and saw her fairer than of old; 
 The polished roll of hair melting in curls 
 Around her ears and down her slender 
 
 neck 
 Where ancient pearls hung heavy in a row 
 Over her robe voluminous and rare 
 With velvet, furs and jewels at the belt, 
 And flowing sleeves and Eastern chate- 
 laine . . . 
 "Faithless, Sir Poet, hast thou been in- 
 deed,"— 
 And as she spoke the childlike eyes of blue 
 Turned on him and the gracious lips' soft 
 
 curves 
 Struck heavenly weakness through his 
 
 every sense. — 
 "Faithless, indeed, to that fair lady here 
 Within our courts who in that lute of thine 
 28 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 Lived peerless 'mong the ladies of all 
 
 lands. 
 Has she been heartless, Folquet, or abused 
 Thy gallant service, that thou fare'st apart 
 And leav'st her here to other suitors' 
 
 songs? 
 Is this the deathless service of thy soul. 
 Of which in springtimes gone thou sang'st 
 
 so sweet 
 That all the courtly universe stood still 
 To listen and bow before the Prince of 
 
 Song?" 
 And he made answer: "O sweet lady, 
 
 grace 
 For him who once among the blossoms 
 
 white 
 Came to thy throne when childhood melted 
 
 soft 
 With scarcely blossoming woman in thy 
 
 cheek; 
 Years hath he sat beside thy feet and told 
 The story of devotion at the shrine. 
 Whose gracious patron's name his breast 
 
 alone 
 By law of ancient courtliness must keep. 
 Unknown the idle dreamer came and sang 
 29 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 When all true lovers listened; for the spell 
 Her beauty fostered lent itself to sound, — 
 In her the magicry of song, in her 
 The essence of his courtliness. 
 For he was but jthe lute whereon her 
 
 smile 
 Trembled to singing and wherein her eyes 
 Set prayers to throbbing aspiration soft; 
 And while his hope remained, her beauty 
 
 proud 
 Was life for him, was song for him, and 
 
 fame. 
 But ah, sweet lady, and you, fair maiden 
 
 throng, 
 Within the garden by the donjon keep 
 At twilight hour have ye not marked the 
 
 moths 
 With heavy wing seek wearily their mates; 
 And some against the brazier screen will 
 
 dash. 
 And some within the taper singe their 
 
 wings. 
 Consumed for their desire within the 
 
 flame. 
 But others on their clumsy wings turn up 
 
 30 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 To reach the star that trembles to their 
 
 heart. 
 Nightly they rise, but only to despair 
 Of her unchanging beauty, till the night 
 Conceals their piteous questing and the 
 
 winds 
 Of autumn chill their hearts with failure; 
 
 so, 
 Sweet ladies, is it with your Prince of 
 
 Song; 
 For lighter wings salute the star tonight, 
 And she is fair and radiant for all. 
 Though she may pity, still she must re- 
 main 
 The star, and fate hath made us as the 
 
 moth. 
 Only remembrance of her now is song, 
 Song almost turned to prayer — the moth 
 
 no more 
 Sees her in love, but in divinity." — 
 The elders gazed upon him half in awe; 
 The churchmen seemed submerged in 
 
 thought; alone 
 The Abbot smiled serenely still; and she 
 Held forth her regal hand that he might 
 
 kiss, 
 
 31 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 Saying, — "O Folquet, had the star a voice 
 Think'st thou it might not rival the poor 
 
 moth 
 That puts its deathless song to melody 
 And dies immortal, leaving her to hold 
 Her soul imprisoned in its adamant?" — 
 And as he bent before her the light notes 
 Of a tornada seemed to rouse the group; 
 The maiden glances met as if in joy; 
 The lordlings half uneasy and attent 
 Stirred in their place to herald in a dance. 
 "A dance!" — the jester cried and caught 
 
 the maid 
 Who just had set the Countess' curls 
 
 aright, 
 And swung her in her billowy skirts until 
 Both like a top careered. "A dance!" — 
 
 outcried 
 Count Barral, — "it will stir your pulses, 
 
 so 
 The wine shall taste the sweeter ! To the 
 
 dance !" 
 The lutes and harps struck up; the Coun- 
 tess rose 
 Holding her hand to Folquet as she 
 
 smiled, — 
 
 3« 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 "Your hand, Sir Gallant, we shall lead the 
 
 throng 
 As in the merry days by smooth Argens." 
 The youth and maids stood ready in a 
 
 line; 
 The Abbot whispered at Count Barral's 
 
 ear; 
 Each damsel set her velvets at their best; 
 The squires slapped their shapely boots, 
 
 and threw 
 The heavy mantles from their shoulders 
 
 back. 
 Then Folquet and the Countess slow began 
 The stately dance; a touch of marvelling 
 Fell on the court; the matchless grace of 
 
 both, 
 Their management of draperies, the turn 
 Of shapely head and shoulder, and the 
 
 ease 
 And spirit of their mien! Never before. 
 Even in her earliest bloom, had been her 
 
 grace 
 So noble and serene; the pride of race 
 And state combined with simple gentleness 
 Until even rugged Count Barral cried 
 
 out, — 
 
 33 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 "Countess, you never danced like this be- 
 fore!" 
 And Folquet, all his native grace and ease 
 Chastened by proud simplicity, his form 
 At the full splendor of its flower; the poise 
 Of Jove-like head, the eye ecstatical, 
 And the light touch of some fatality, 
 Graced him, as at some rite the ancient 
 
 priests 
 With David moved in dance before the 
 
 Ark. 
 But in his heart the folly of it all 
 Clutched at his breath almost to force the 
 
 scorn 
 Upon his lips, but for high courtliness ; 
 And thought like fire seared athwart his 
 
 breast, — 
 "They keep their poets but to dance, like 
 
 bears 
 The travelling fairsmen lead about In 
 
 chains!" 
 And as he swung in grand obeisance 'round 
 To smile upon the Countess — "This our 
 
 gift 
 Divine to patter time upon the floor 
 34 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 With indolent women, oh! the shame of 
 
 it!— 
 To glad these boors and lackbrains, while 
 
 beyond 
 They say the stars are calling us! And 
 
 when 
 We would proclaim their message to the 
 
 heart 
 They steal from us to those who will keep 
 
 up 
 The ceaseless rigadoons, dragging us 
 
 thereto 
 In chains of love with them, our feeble 
 
 hearts 
 Have woven, slaves of earth and misery; 
 While underneath God shows our chosen 
 
 souls 
 The fire that yawns for earthlings, the 
 
 dead fate 
 Of sinners for whose thoughtless souls in 
 
 vain 
 He has outpoured His blood ! And what 
 
 reward 
 Have I for all this trifling with my soul? — 
 A love turned worthless as the hair turns 
 
 gray; 
 
 35 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 A love that yet enthralls me to the dust, 
 While at my heart a voice keeps thunder- 
 ing, 
 'Eternity! Eternity!' — Like some 
 Poor climber who amid the branches light 
 Dares not go on, and dreads even to re- 
 turn, 
 I stand upon the very brink of Hell; 
 Yet fearful of an idle sneer, decline 
 To draw me back from out my perilous 
 
 strait." — 
 Then as he knelt to kiss his partner's hand 
 At finish of the dance, he thought within, 
 Though outward smiling: — "God, the 
 
 mockery 
 Of all this stupid rout, while at our feet 
 The flames seem crackling! O unfaithful 
 
 heart 
 Of mine, who will be faithful, shouldst 
 
 thou fail? 
 I sing but as a debt to folly, and love 
 Itself grows weary unto me — yes, weary 
 With beauty of fair forms, of smiles, of 
 
 joys. 
 Of nature's seasons grown monotonous I 
 
 36 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 And oh, my soul, thinkst thou that to the 
 
 fruit 
 Of Paradise thy steps shall come, thus 
 
 stayed? 
 To what strong hand of evil hast thou 
 
 given 
 The keys of thy poor life? And see, the 
 
 world 
 Smirks 'round and calls thee 'Prince of 
 
 Song,' until 
 The very sound breeds madness, — think, 
 
 If It 
 Be terror but to think of life upon 
 This bed of earthly surfeit, — think — oh, 
 
 think, 
 Eternity upon a bed of flames!" 
 The sweat stood on his brow; the grim 
 
 thought seemed 
 To wring his very vitals, and he rose 
 Weak and all-desolate, the clang of lutes 
 Wild in his ears — as all the gallants turned 
 To take their places for another dance 
 With careless laughter and new-fangled 
 
 moves. 
 A moment more he paused beside the deep 
 Embrasured casement till Alazais, 
 
 37 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 Oblivious of all, but of her curls, 
 
 Her train and trinkets and the boyish 
 
 smile 
 Of light Sir Miraval, her newest sprout 
 Of courtliness and song, moved out to 
 
 dance. 
 The silver spiral of Argens called forth 
 Across the moonlit scrolling of the hills. 
 Unmarked he hastened forth, and passed 
 
 along 
 The gloomy passages into the court. 
 There by a yellow lamp that seemed to 
 
 smirk 
 In envy at the moon his esquires sat 
 With other menials at a rough repast. 
 Then while they brought the horses forth 
 
 from out 
 The shadows of the mews, he heard be- 
 hind 
 The Abbot's voice approaching, and he 
 
 sprang 
 Into his saddle, as the churchman came 
 Out at the door, and called, — "Tarry a 
 
 while. 
 My son, until my steed be ready, then 
 38 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 Shall we ride forth together." So, they 
 
 passed 
 Through the white outskirts of the sleep- 
 ing town, 
 By snowy bridges, where the flecks of 
 
 bloom 
 Rippled before them like a foam-tipped 
 
 surge ; 
 They heard the bells of Torondet afar 
 Tolling sonorous peace unto the stars. 
 The city lights were lost behind the hills 
 As the swift steeds sped on along the road 
 Beside Argens where now and then a frog 
 Croaked at the marge, — a gleaming trout 
 
 sprang up 
 And vanished almost like a falling star. 
 In silence Folquet and the Abbot rode 
 Ahead; the squires and novices kept up 
 Their youthful chatter far behind; at times 
 Around the hills the mounted monks' 
 
 white hoods 
 And habits and the glittering of the steel 
 And trappings of the squires would lend a 
 
 touch 
 Of spectral to the band; and when at 
 
 length 
 
 39 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 Between the heavy trees the pathway led 
 Apart to Folquet's dwelling, the old monk 
 Laying his hand upon the poet's arm 
 Whispered : — ^'There is no slumber there, 
 
 my son; 
 At Torondet thy cell stands ready, come ; 
 Tonight the heavens are calling thee; look 
 
 up, 
 Thy destiny hath made thee for the 
 
 stars!" — 
 And Folquet melting almost Into tears 
 Raised the old Abbot's ring and kissing It 
 Said, — "Father, thou sayst aright; yea, I 
 
 would gain 
 My soul's reprieve; lead me to Toron- 
 det." 
 
 II 
 
 Ten times the orchard slops of Torondet 
 Had borne their fruitage, and ten. times 
 
 the spring 
 Passed with Its blossoms over hedge and 
 
 vine; 
 The bells by day and night communed on 
 
 high 
 
 40 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 With holy calms; and from the cloister 
 
 church 
 Incense and prayer and sacrifice arisen. 
 But not in those grim towers had passed 
 
 the days 
 As in the fretted shrines of Italy 
 Or In the glittering sanctuaries of France, 
 Where monk and prelate swept in ritual 
 
 train ; 
 But like a fortress set against the world 
 The walls of Torondet amid the hills 
 Spoke out defiance. There had Folquet 
 
 dwelt 
 Until his cowl itself had come to seem 
 A very part of being, and the paths 
 And arches of the cloister took the scope 
 Of all the world. There in his daily tasks 
 Of prayer and office, feast, and fast, and 
 
 work 
 In his still corner of the Scriptory 
 He one by one rubbed out the stains of 
 
 life, 
 Its frail affections, Its distractions vain. 
 Till, if by chance a minstrel down the road 
 Touched at his lute, he hardly heard or 
 
 raised 
 
 41 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 His head from off his frame of vellum 
 
 skin, — 
 So had his century been lost to him. 
 But not at first his cloister was secure; 
 A word dropped lightly in the pilgrim's 
 
 hall, 
 An ancient name repeated on the scrolls, 
 Set all his heart ablaze, and some from far 
 Would gaze on him who had been "Prince 
 
 of Song," 
 Whereat he drew the hood upon his face. 
 At times across the sunlit hills would float 
 The hunting horn ; or in the spring a band 
 Of dames and courtiers wandered down 
 
 the road. 
 And something clutched like a tiger at his 
 
 throat. 
 Until he fled and cast himself in fear 
 Before the sombre shrine — and they were 
 
 gone. 
 The nights to him grew terrible; his cell 
 Echoed the trumpets of a hundred kings; 
 Tourneys and battles swept across his 
 
 dreams. 
 And in the throng came women he had 
 
 loved, 
 
 42 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 From Genoa, Marseilles and Syria. 
 Among them one there was with empress' 
 
 crown, 
 And one, whose lovely arms were bruised 
 
 with chains, 
 Used the sweet voice of old: — "O Fol- 
 
 quet, thou 
 That slumberest in a distant cell hast 
 
 shared 
 With me the joys for which my lord, Bar- 
 
 ral. 
 Dooms me today within my buried pit. 
 Alazais am I — hast thou forgotten? 
 See, where thy kisses were, now dungeon 
 
 rats 
 Have bitten ! Would I had fled with thee 
 While there was time 1 Would that thy 
 
 lips were mine 
 Here in this dungeon, so the pit of hell 
 Might take us both in that embrace 1 Alas, ., 
 Think not that thou canst steal to heaven 
 
 alone ; 
 God is no earthly prince that thou canst 
 
 cheat; 
 Throw off that cowl, thy courtier robe was 
 
 best; 
 
 43 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 Thou canst not pander to a God so just!" 
 And at the matin bell the brothers saw 
 How like a corpse he sat within his stall, 
 Nor took that day his humble crust of 
 
 bread, 
 Nor silence broke within the times 
 
 allowed. 
 Then when they sang the Noel midnight 
 
 mass 
 Before the peasants gathered from the 
 
 hills, 
 His voice was hardly heard; but when the 
 
 chant 
 Rose o'er some brother's corpse, at Tene- 
 
 brae, 
 They heard his Miserere like a knell 
 Trembling among the arches to a sob. 
 The younger brothers paled when he in- 
 toned, 
 ''Jerusalem, Jerusalem, return 
 Unto the Lord thy God!" — so terrible 
 His accent! — So it passed that he was held 
 A saint uncannonized, and prelates came 
 To crave his prayers and wisdom, — till 
 
 one day 
 A Templar, resting in the hall, announced 
 44 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 The tidings from Marseilles, that Bar- 
 
 ral's wife, 
 Alazais, had died. And Folquet heard, 
 Nor spoke nor gave a sign, but sat before 
 His vellum all the day like some carved 
 
 piece 
 Of stone, until the master saw his state 
 And had him carried, senseless, to his cell. 
 And on the vellum they beheld this song — 
 Upon the margin, last of all he wrote : — 
 
 "How the weary years are sped. 
 That they tell me scornfully 
 
 Alazais the fair is dead, 
 
 And wait my tears to see ! — 
 
 "But no more mine eyes reply 
 
 Than when came the dreary word. 
 
 One had seen King Richard die, 
 One Toulouse's knightly lord. 
 
 "They say the King of Aragon 
 The great Alfonso is at rest — 
 
 And now they heap the clay upon 
 Alazais — God ease her breast!" — 
 
 45 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 Thenceforth at his approach the laughter 
 
 died 
 Among the playful groups of novices; 
 The older fathers in their lighter moods 
 Avoided him; and as the days wore on 
 He grew to be a figure strange, remote, 
 Robed with an undefined authority. 
 Thus when the aged Abbot died, the 
 
 monks 
 Proclaimed him mitred Lord of Torondet. 
 For evil days had come upon Provence, 
 And strenuous hands were needed at the 
 
 helm 
 To guide the holy ship of Christ amid 
 The waves that rose against it. Christen- 
 dom 
 Was whispering with scandals grave and 
 
 dread. 
 That at Toulouse the spectre of the Fiend 
 Had raised again his Manichean horns. 
 Within the town the brothers had been 
 
 met 
 With jeers and insults, churches been pro- 
 faned 
 And tabernacles rifled. There were tales 
 46 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 Of fearful rites among the hills by night; 
 
 The woods were red with fires; by the 
 road 
 
 Strange voices came and went, and some- 
 times shrieked 
 
 Their blasphemies against the gateside 
 rood. 
 
 By the red trails from Rome the haughty 
 train 
 
 Of legates came and went in flaming haste ; 
 
 And messengers rushed daily from Toul- 
 ouse 
 
 Bearing Count Raimon's parleys with the 
 Pope. 
 
 Until one night upon the abbey gate 
 
 Thundered the knocker and the porter 
 came 
 
 To rouse him in his cell, with messages 
 
 For Abbot Folquet sent by Innocent, 
 
 Sealed with the signet of the Fisherman. 
 
 And Folquet rose and read the ordi- 
 nance, — 
 
 That he set forth at once unto Toulouse, 
 
 Drag down the traitor Bishop from his 
 chair, 
 
 47 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 On his own finger slip the amethyst, 
 And hold the town in fee for Mother 
 
 Church. 
 Then the first joy that he had known for 
 
 years 
 Seized on his heart, and in a fevered haste 
 He summoned forth the Abbot's coach of 
 
 state, 
 Bade the roused brothers to attend his 
 
 will, 
 And without scrip or luggage rode away 
 Before the morn could break. But as he 
 
 went 
 He heard the matin bells ring out afar 
 Behind him in the tower of Torondet; 
 And in his memory wakened that strange 
 
 night 
 When first their peace and sweetness 
 
 wooed his soul. 
 For now it seemed that after all these 
 
 years 
 'Twas fated he should know their calm no 
 
 more. 
 He saw the sun arising on the hills 
 And bowed his head in mystical commune 
 48 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 With his far brothers offering now their 
 
 mass 
 In unison for him and his emprise. 
 
 Full bitter the emprise : Toulouse, the fair 
 Rose-garden city of the South, was now 
 A thicket full of thorns for all its blooms. 
 He who sat down beneath its mitre's 
 
 weight 
 Bore a great load of sorrows and chagrins; 
 For here the ancient East had spread its 
 
 nets, 
 And rebels and heresiarchs had crouched 
 Beneath the favor of successive lords 
 Whose minds were sole intent to profit 
 
 hard 
 And sow their fertile fields of France with 
 
 seeds 
 Of pleasure light and carnal indolence. 
 Like thunder from a summer cloud, the 
 
 voice 
 Of Rome had rumbled o'er the land, to 
 
 warn 
 Of storms to come; the vineyard laughter 
 
 brought 
 
 49 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 The answer of Provence ; the gathering 
 
 gloom 
 Of hurricanes grew darker, yet the sound 
 Of lutes, like the cicadas, never ceased. 
 The Legates came and went; — "Make 
 
 straight His paths!" — 
 They cried — "We are the cherubim that 
 
 wield 
 The flaming sword to guard the tree of 
 
 life! 
 Behold, He salth, 'I will My vengeance 
 
 wreak 
 Upon my enemies and will reward 
 All them that hate Me!' — Lo, we sound 
 
 for you 
 The trumpets of the Lord ! — 'Let all flesh 
 
 know 
 That I the Lord have drawn my sword 
 
 from forth 
 Its sheath; nor shall return It more!' — 
 Divide not ye His seamless robe!" — 
 
 Vainly 
 Count Ralmon countered and excused In 
 
 vain. 
 "Cast forth your Cathari's accursed 
 
 spawn; 
 
 50 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 You nurse a cancer-spot within our breast; 
 We are the Law and Prophets; we must 
 
 keep 
 Eternal covenant with the Christian 
 
 world!"— 
 But he replied: "They are good men and 
 
 free; 
 I cannot force their souls ; your churchmen 
 
 laws 
 Are not for all. And I am sovereign 
 
 here!"— 
 So the French King Augustus, knowing 
 
 well 
 His feeble powers over proud Toulouse, 
 Held back, the while a harvest crop of 
 
 crimes 
 Grew daily greater till that fatal day 
 The dirk from out Count Raimon's court 
 
 cut down 
 The Papal Legate Peter; then the steeds 
 Of Montfort whinnied on the blast for 
 
 blood 
 And vengeance. Folquet on his purple 
 
 throne 
 Sat like a spider 'mid a tangled net, 
 51 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 Not all his weaving but the hellish woof 
 Of doom impending. — 
 
 The Crusaders paused: — 
 "Shall we leave here a nest of Infamies 
 That blacken all our Christendom, to fare 
 Abroad for Paynlms? — Here a band that 
 
 scorns 
 Our Church, our Christ, our sacraments 
 
 and laws? — 
 A brood unnatural that threats our state 
 With dissolution, that no contract-oath 
 Or true confession can control, nor priest 
 Can serve, nor sacrifice command? — Their 
 
 death I 
 Their death 1 or penance ! For we are 
 
 the law 
 On earth as it is in heaven I" — 
 
 Fury spread 
 Its blast-wide wings, the warring hordes 
 
 swept on 
 Through burning cities, fallen walls, and 
 
 towers. 
 And blackened regions red with streams 
 
 of blood, 
 While Carcassonne and ravaged Bezlers 
 
 shone 
 
 52 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 Like two red wounds upon the brows of 
 
 Time. 
 Then Folquet riding closed within his 
 
 coach 
 Sought his grim, hostile city of Toulouse, 
 His nose grown thin and sharp, his eyes 
 
 on fire, 
 His jaws set hard to serve his priestly 
 
 task. 
 His hands gripped firmly on the crozier 
 
 staff. 
 Beside him Brother Dominic, clad in 
 
 white. 
 Had heard the mocking lutes within the 
 
 court 
 Strike off his ancient lay, "The Blossom 
 
 Time 
 Of Spring." And Folquet sighed: "Shall 
 
 nevermore 
 My ears be free of that poor feeble song? 
 We have stripped off the splendor of our 
 
 state, 
 Put by our robes and trains and 'out- 
 riders. 
 And driven forth all that would a scandal 
 
 give 
 
 S3 
 
DON FOLOUET 
 
 To our opponents here or make their poor 
 False argument for wrong. Still, still that 
 
 song 
 Is flung at me whene'er I venture forth — 
 A pitiless rejoinder from the flesh 
 When I would urge the spirit's higher call. 
 From out Count Raimon's window leaned 
 
 a form, 
 A woman such as men call beautiful, 
 Who cast upon me flowers and smiling 
 
 cried, — 
 *For thee, thou "Prince of Song" !' And 
 
 I grew weak 
 As through my heart the thorn went 
 
 straight to pierce 
 My very life. But come, no more of 
 
 this, — 
 This day I come my deacons to ordain; 
 But first have asked Count Raimon, thrice 
 
 accursed 
 By Mother Church, to leave the town 
 
 awhile. 
 So I may act in my episcopal rite. 
 This can he scarce refuse. I now await 
 His answer." Soon within the Bishop's 
 
 hall 
 
 54 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 There came with escort a young trouba- 
 dour; 
 His locks all curling gold, his lute strung 
 
 high 
 Against his thigh; he read in lisping tones 
 •Count Raimon's answer — "Bishop, you 
 
 who were 
 In olden time our Prince of Song, and now 
 By voice of Rome empowered would wage 
 
 a war 
 For Rome, although a stranger seated in 
 Our citadel, — know that Count Raimon 
 
 here 
 Is sovereign Lord, — nor thinks he to fare 
 
 forth 
 To hunt without the city, nor to feast 
 Within the woods; for there's a flock 
 
 abroad 
 Of wolves too ravenous and hunger-led; 
 Nor is there tourney, nor a court of love 
 Now that the Prince of Song would scorn 
 
 the lute. 
 Therefore Count Raimon bids Don Fol- 
 
 quet rise 
 Betimes tomorrow, and go forth himself 
 With all his traitorous White Company, 
 5S 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 And leave Toulouse and its true citizens 
 Free of their presence , Let him join out- 
 side 
 With Montfort's legions waiting at La- 
 
 vaur. 
 There shall he be at home and find his will 
 Accomplished as he wishes. At the break 
 Of day our gates shall open. Issue forth 
 If you do value life!" — 
 
 And Folquet rose 
 From out his seat and answered, — "Mes- 
 senger, 
 Go back to Count Raimon and say that I, 
 Once Prince of Song, am now his Bishop 
 
 here. 
 It was not he who made me Bishop, nor 
 Have I come hither on account of him. 
 I came not as intruder, nor by force 
 Of any earthly prince, nor will I go 
 Because he orders. Let him do his worst! 
 Ready am I to know his knife, that I 
 May gain my glory through the chalice 
 
 blood 
 Of my deliverance I I am all alone, — 
 Unarmed, — so let him come. For I am 
 called 
 
 S6 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 The Bishop of the Devils — be it so — 
 For here are devils, and I am their 
 
 Lord!"— 
 But Raimon stirred not forth against him 
 
 now, 
 Though for a month he waited. Then at 
 
 last 
 Came Brother Dominic unto him and said: 
 '"Tis time to go; the city's doom is sealed; 
 Let us prepare, and lead our Christians 
 
 forth I"— 
 All through the night the rumor ran apace 
 From church to convent and to church 
 
 again : 
 "Prepare to leave Toulouse; the Lord 
 
 hath given 
 His word; let us go forth In peace and 
 
 right!"— 
 And through the streets and squares as 
 
 morning broke 
 The banners of the faith spread on the 
 
 breeze 
 And a great throng of folk, layman and 
 
 clerk. 
 Marched amid hymning toward the outer 
 
 gate. 
 
 57 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 And every priest and monk went up their 
 
 shrines, 
 Opened the tabernacle door and took the 
 
 Host 
 And chalice on their breast and quenched 
 
 the light 
 Before the altars — and toward the gate 
 Went forth in solemn ritual pomp. And 
 
 last 
 Came Folquet In his mitre crowned, his 
 
 cope 
 All gold around him, pressed against his 
 
 breast 
 The Sacrament and monstrance from the 
 
 shrine 
 Of the cathedral. 
 
 In his train there swarmed 
 His priests and monks and Dominic's 
 
 throngs in white. 
 With women and their children, and the 
 
 old; 
 While o'er his head his deacons newly 
 
 made 
 Upheld the silken canopy that marked 
 The holiest point in the cortege. .... 
 
 And when 
 
 58 
 
 i 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 He reached the castle gates he paused and 
 
 raised 
 His monstrance as a sign of warning 
 
 there, — 
 When slowly on their hinges the great 
 
 doors 
 Swung open, and within the courtyard wide 
 Knelt all Count Raimon's household on 
 
 the stones; 
 And at their head the Count himself, amid 
 The womenfolk that made the scandals 
 
 wing 
 Adown the whispering echoes of the world. 
 Don Folquet's cheek grew pale before the 
 
 sight. 
 He placed the monstrance within Domin- 
 ic's hands, 
 And strode across the gateway. — "Count 
 
 Raimon, 
 And you, his servitors, what mockery 
 Of reverence is here? Have I not warned 
 In words of Holy Rome, that on your 
 
 heads 
 The interdict would fall? — the while you 
 
 laughed 
 
 59 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 And mocked the distant thunders of the 
 
 Pope? 
 And you, Sire Count, have sent me mes- 
 sages, 
 Commanding me to go, but I, unarmed 
 Save by the Holy Ghost's supernal powers, 
 Have scorned your warrant and authority. 
 For there is none, save him in Rome, to 
 
 give 
 Command to Bishop Folquet By the right 
 Of God's appointed, have I come and 
 
 stayed, 
 And still do hold the spiritual fief 
 Upon Toulouse I" — Count Raimon then 
 
 arose, 
 "Bishop," he said, "we know no compeer 
 
 here; 
 The sovereign county of Toulouse belongs 
 To us by right of our inheritance; 
 We have allowed the power of Rome to 
 
 place 
 Upon our Bishop's throne an enemy, 
 No friend unto our customs of Toulouse, 
 An enemy within our citadel 
 To scheme for our undoing. Have we 
 
 not 
 
 60 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 At various times sought at the Roman 
 throne 
 
 For reconcilement, and done penance for 
 
 Our sins of flesh, and granted to the 
 church 
 
 Her rights and privileges in our 
 realms?" — 
 
 "Yes," cried Don Folquet,— "With your 
 left hand out 
 
 To her, the while your right caressed your 
 sins, 
 
 Fostered the Cathari's abhorred bands; 
 
 Let loose their leprosy upon the world, 
 
 The while you turned upon your couch 
 of lust 
 
 And feast and song. While we, the min- 
 isters 
 
 Of God's appointment, waged a losing 
 war, 
 
 You fed the crumbs of favor to the beasts 
 
 Who would destroy our Church and Chris- 
 tendom ! 
 
 Today, in joy, by our own will not yours. 
 
 We go to join our brothers of the Cross. 
 
 Your power is not for us; Rome has cut 
 off 
 
 6i 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 The stream of our obedience to your laws, 
 And you are outcast from her font of 
 
 grace, — 
 You, and all these who serve you, are 
 
 condemned 
 By interdict. There is your final doom I" — 
 "Nay, Bishop, we are Christians here, I 
 
 swear 
 Again; go forth, if so you will, but leave 
 Some monk or priest with power to ab- 
 solve 
 And consecrate the Host, for we are 
 
 placed 
 In battle-line to meet Don Simon's troops, 
 And fierce and terrible the fight must be, 
 And some shall fall beneath the deadly 
 
 press. 
 And the priest's holiest office is to say 
 Last absolution" — "Will you then sub- 
 mit," 
 Demanded Folquet, "to the Legate's 
 
 powers ; 
 Surrendering Toulouse and all your rights 
 Into the hands of Rome?" "You ask too 
 great 
 
 62 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 A price," Count Raimon said, "we are to- 
 day 
 But suppliants at the priestly doors for 
 
 grace 
 Of spirit, not for temporal ordinance. 
 We have our foes political but choose 
 One God, one Cross, and one communion. 
 The temporal Rome against us wages war. 
 And we resist, but not the spiritual! — 
 Join ye our enemies, your friends outside. 
 But shut us not beyond the Christian fold! 
 Though warring, we are brothers in the 
 
 blood 
 Of Christ!"— "Nay, Count," the Bishop 
 
 answered him, 
 "Divide not God's appointment to His 
 
 Church 
 With your own usurpation of a power 
 Which you have forfeited! To Csesar, 
 
 give 
 All that belongs to Csesar, — nothing 
 
 more! 
 You have usurped the right of Mother 
 
 Church 
 To judge of things of dogma, rite, 
 And discipline. Your easy tolerance 
 
 63 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 Of vice and error have become your boast 
 Instead of shame. Some natural grace, 
 
 some vice, 
 Some looseness in the life and creed of 
 
 these 
 Your Catharists has led your sense astray; 
 But we, the God-appointed judges of the 
 
 Church, 
 The guardians of His never-ceasing grace, 
 The wielders of His sole authority, 
 We do behold and judge them to the 
 
 sword — 
 Not pitiless, for we have urged and prayed 
 For their conversion — but in vain! And 
 
 now 
 Their doom has fallen — and your doom. 
 Lapped in your vices, with your mind on 
 
 earth 
 And not upon eternal guidance placed — 
 Your doom, as well, O Count Raimon, is 
 
 here! 
 So without blessing do I go my way; 
 And God goes with me ! See, your churches 
 
 bare, 
 Your tapers quenched, your blessed stoups 
 
 gone dry! 
 
 64 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 The child shall cry In vain to know the 
 font; 
 
 The penitent turn vainly for the priest; 
 
 The dying find no blessing at the end! 
 
 Give me the monstrance of my God" — He 
 took 
 
 The golden disc upon his breast again: — 
 
 "And now, my brothers, let us on our 
 way! — 
 
 Then silent walked he to the outer gate. 
 
 Where, lifting high the Host, he cried 
 afar, — 
 
 "Jerusalem! Jerusalem! oh, why 
 
 Hast thou forsaken Me! Behold, Toul- 
 ouse, 
 
 Thy doom is come upon thee ! Like the 
 dust 
 
 Before the wind the Angel of the Lord 
 
 Shall scatter thee 1 Remember Carcas- 
 sonne ! 
 
 Remember dread Beziers! Thy doom is 
 come !" — 
 
 Then he was gone, the city streets grew 
 still 
 
 And half deserted. Men looked fearful- 
 eyed 
 
 65 , 
 
DON FOLQUET 
 
 At one another. On the hills the crash 
 Of far-off thunder trembled to their souls; 
 Great drops of rain — not blood as yet — 
 Splashed on the pavements. Wide the 
 
 churches gaped 
 With doors unbarred and tabernacles 
 
 bare 
 Of all their sacred store. One voice alone, 
 A sweet and tragic voice, came floating 
 
 forth 
 Across the castle walls, like some calm 
 
 bird 
 Amid the troubled branches ere the storm, 
 Singing unmoved "The Blossom Time of 
 
 Spring." 
 
 66 
 
ARIFA "THE TREE OF LIGHT" 
 From "Alhamhra Songs" 
 
 Still I remember the dread morn they 
 
 came 
 Across the mountains; how the sudden 
 
 flame 
 Leaped from the castle windows, and the 
 
 cry 
 Of fear and rapine echoed on the sky; 
 While I, poor outcast, called Maruja 
 
 then. 
 Watching the village goats, saw from the 
 
 glen 
 Our hill-folk slain at every hovel door, 
 And ravening horsemen smeared with 
 
 foam and gore 
 Sacking the shrine. They snatched me up 
 
 and fled 
 Across the passes. All that night the red 
 Of signal fires shone on the peaks, the 
 
 sound 
 
 67 
 
ARIFA "THE TREE OF LII^HT" 
 
 Of warning bells rose from the vales 
 
 around. 
 Swift were their barbs, for at the dawning 
 
 light 
 I saw Granada's plain, and ere the night 
 Its market-place, wherein they led me out 
 And sold me weeping 'mid the din and 
 
 shout. 
 'Twas a good price, wise Edriz, that you 
 
 paid 
 For me a wild thing from the mountain 
 
 glade ! 
 When you had seen me bathed and per- 
 fumed sweet — 
 My hair all unguents, robed unto my feet 
 In Persian silks and pearls in strings that 
 
 glowed 
 Like rainbow fetters — then along the road 
 At morn you led me on a palfrey white 
 Across the city squares and up Alhambra's 
 
 height. 
 Yea, beautiful was Yussuf on that day 
 He welcomed me! They bade me bend 
 
 and say 
 "Salaam," and then he took me by the 
 
 hand. 
 
 68 
 
ARIFA "THE TREE OF LIGHT" 
 
 All cloth of gold his raiment was, a band 
 
 Of diamonds on his forehead, when he 
 spoke 
 
 And named me first "Arifa" there awoke 
 
 The woman in my breast; the flush of 
 shame 
 
 And rapture coursing swiftly through my 
 frame 
 
 Was sign I loved him. — But 'twas ever so 
 
 With each new plaything from the mart 
 below; 
 
 For there was none like him to touch the 
 lute 
 
 And stringed kanun; the nightingales were 
 mute 
 
 In ecstasy to hear his voice; his smile 
 
 Was as the springtime through some pearl- 
 strewn isle. 
 
 And oft at twilight, spell-bound 'neath his 
 glance, 
 
 We heard him read ghazdl or fond ro- 
 mance 
 
 Of his own fashioning, — some precious 
 phrase 
 
 From Hafiz or Ibn-Zemric or the lays 
 69 
 
ARIFA "THE TREE OF LTGHT" 
 
 Of old Firdausi's Book of Kings, en- 
 scrolled 
 On vellums stained in scarlet and in gold. 
 That I outshone them — I, Arifa, tree 
 On which his daylight blossomed — that 
 
 for me 
 All yielded place upon his bosom there — 
 Zora the Malagan, Zoraida rare, 
 Maisuna and Borina, beauties vain 
 From Kairouan, Algeria and Spain — 
 Served but to whet my restless heart with 
 
 pride 
 Of conquest. Soon they taught my hands 
 
 to glide 
 O'er ivory-fret tanburs, my feet to glide 
 In tinkling anklets, craftily to trace 
 My lids with stibials, my finger tips 
 To stain with henna ; framed my northern 
 
 lips 
 To murmur prayers to Allah, songs and 
 
 praise 
 To Yussuf in their jewelled Arab 
 
 phrase, — 
 Yet spite his treasures, spite Alhisn's re- 
 treats, 
 
 70 
 
ARIFA "THE TREE OF LIGHT" 
 
 Its fountains, lutes, and perfumes, gems 
 
 and sweets — 
 Spite of them all, had I not solace found 
 In Yussuf's love, no blandishment or 
 
 bound 
 Had kept me long from plunging from the 
 
 height 
 Upon the roofs below. Even so at night 
 When on the terrace I could steal alone 
 And leave the ceaseless revel, weary 
 
 grown 
 Of Eastern tales from out Scheherazade, 
 Of tittering dwarfs, of chess of gold and 
 
 jade — 
 Up from the depths of some Granada 
 
 street 
 Would rise at times a serenade blown 
 
 sweet 
 And wild, — such times came thoughts, 
 
 swift thoughts like blows 
 Against my forehead. Had the heaven 
 
 that gave 
 No father to me, meant me for a slave 
 Though born of mountain blood? Then 
 
 when I heard 
 In spring or autumn the returning bird — 
 
 71 
 
ARIFA "THE TREE OF LIGHT" 
 
 The flocking swallows from Morocco's 
 
 shore, 
 Twitter and call outside the Tower once 
 
 more, — 
 It seemed the glamor died from Yussuf's 
 
 eyes; 
 I shrank from his fond arms with smoth- 
 ered cries 
 Among the silken pillows. — Thus the 
 
 years 
 Wore on; then came — one midnight — on 
 
 our ears 
 The rush of Askari across the Court 
 Of Cisterns; at the gateway loud report 
 And voices clamoring "Open." Peering 
 
 out 
 We saw 'twas Abu-Sai'd with his rout 
 Of guards and torchmen. Silent terror fell 
 On our Alhisn, Again the citadel 
 Rang with the summons "Open!" From 
 
 on high 
 Yussuf behind the lattice made reply: — 
 "Vizier of mighty Ismail, the hour 
 Is late that brings thee to our fortress 
 
 tower; 
 
 72 
 
ARIFA "THE TREE OF EIGHT" 
 
 Speak, is there message from Granada's 
 
 King, 
 Whose name be ever blessed, thou dost 
 
 bring?" 
 Then Abu-Said answered — "Message none 
 From Ismail bring I tonight, O Son 
 Of Mightiness, — but tidings thou must 
 
 know; 
 Death's Angel Azrael hath stricken low 
 Thy brother Ismail; thou now art Lord 
 Of Sceptre, Key and Diadem and Sword." 
 But Yussuf cried: — "Nay, 'tis some bale- 
 ful dream 
 Hath witched thee, O Vizier, that thou 
 
 shouldst deem 
 Great Ismail dead ; no portent of the night, 
 No comet blazes, such as marks the flight 
 From earth of souls like hisl" — "Nay, in 
 
 the gloom 
 Great Azrael marked thy brother for the 
 
 tomb. 
 Throw wide Alhisn's resounding fortress 
 
 gates; 
 Come thou and rule Alhambra !" — "Lo, 
 
 what fates, 
 
 73 
 
ARIFA "THE TREE OF LIGHT" 
 
 What tempests ask you that the poor 
 
 caged wing 
 Shall brave? 'Tis for the eagle to be king 
 Of the Sierras! Mine the lizard's state 
 Warmed in the sunshine at my brother's 
 
 gate."— 
 But as they spoke across the Courtyard 
 
 wide, 
 Approached the royal litter; stretched in- 
 side 
 Beneath the torchlight the dead Ismail lay, 
 A king in death! Still Yussuf in dismay 
 Lest Abu-Said with some fatal snare 
 Contrive to seize him, draped his garment 
 
 rare 
 About my shoulders, on my forehead 
 
 bound 
 The princely turban ; then upon the ground 
 Lurked hidden 'mong the slaves. With 
 
 armed clang 
 They passed our gates; the trembling 
 
 arches rang 
 Proclaiming Yussuf. Stealthily he drew 
 Beside the litter, creeping till he knew 
 And touched the body; cold indeed in 
 
 death 
 
 74 
 
ARIFA "THE TREE OF LIGHT" 
 
 Lay Ismail, lifeless there without a 
 
 breath — 
 Then Yussuf rose on high and I was cast 
 Beneath him with a gesture as he passed. 
 'Twas dawn ere with the drums and gongs 
 
 he went 
 Beyond the Lion's Court; the battlement 
 Flaming the signals to the mountain forts. 
 Then closed the gates on us; Alhisn's far 
 
 courts 
 Shook with the clamor of the bolts. How 
 
 gray, 
 Alas, how drear — that lonely break of 
 
 day! — 
 But his Arifa, his sweet tree of day. 
 Had all her blossoms too been swept 
 
 away. 
 That never to Alhambra's royal bower 
 He summoned her? — yea, never from that 
 
 hour 
 Returned unto Alhisn ! — They brought me 
 
 word 
 He craved the parrot, a sharp-witted bird 
 That spoke some quips from Sadi; once 
 
 again 
 Did he recall me, once, but only then 
 75 
 
ARIFA "THE TREE OF LIGHT" 
 
 To claim anew the ruby called "The Heart 
 Of Andalusia." Where we lay apart 
 And half-forgotten in Alhisn, there still 
 Came rumors of revolts. The times were 
 
 ill, 
 The tribute heavy, ceaseless out of far 
 Sevilla came King Pedro's threats of war. 
 Yea, even Alhambra's hallowed walls 
 
 could hear 
 The taunts of some rash Christian cava- 
 lier; 
 And once at twilight, too, a serenade 
 Came wafting up for his Alhambra maid. 
 It set my heart a-dream with stories told 
 Of fond sultanas who, in days of old. 
 Braved these sheer depths at some true 
 
 knight's appeal 
 And o'er the mountain passes gained Cas- 
 tile. 
 But I — were it for me that gallant's song — 
 Could I return as poor Maruja 'mong 
 The village folk? — Arifa, I whose praise 
 Granada's poets sing — whose flower of 
 
 days 
 Is still at bloom? Could I return and 
 know 
 
 76 
 
ARIFA "THE TREE OF LIGHT" 
 
 The people of my race, and veil-less go 
 Throughout their cities, learn to make the 
 
 Cross, 
 And count the Ave bells? If so, what loss 
 To Yussuf ? — he whose feasts were spread 
 
 around 
 The Court of Myrtles, he with beard en- 
 wound 
 With jewels, tossing coins in yellow play 
 Into the pools of goldfish all the day! — 
 Then ay de mi! that morn when at the 
 
 doors 
 They flung him back amid their jeers and 
 
 roars 
 Of Abu-Sai'd's guards ! — his futile reign 
 Annulled, his tinsel sceptre snapped in 
 
 twain 
 At that dread upstart's whim! Alhisn 
 
 anew 
 Lit up its lamps ; the arrafias blew 
 Their mellow pastorals; santal and musk 
 Breathed from the perfume urns. Yea, 
 
 now the husk 
 Of Yussuf's days was ours, his painted 
 
 smile 
 
 77 
 
ARIFA "THE TREE OF LIGHT" 
 
 And gruesome touch — life seemed a task 
 
 too vile! — 
 Yet with myself I still kept faith. That 
 
 thing 
 Misshapen, imbecile, the slaves did fling 
 To us was Yussuf, victim of a fate 
 Inflexible as ours! That I should hate 
 As once I loved, what woman is there 
 
 born 
 Would blame me to revenge my months 
 
 of scorn? 
 And yet all loathsome derelict he was, 
 Had he not been my prince of love, the 
 
 cause 
 Of all my rapture, all my bitterness? 
 Though he had wronged me, it was mine 
 
 to bless; 
 And I would save him when again they 
 
 broke 
 Into Alhisn. — I wrapped me in his cloak 
 Again to screen him; — but he thrust me 
 
 by. 
 And cried exulting — ^'Askari, 'tis I, 
 Your monarch Yussuf ! Lo, once more ye 
 
 come 
 
 78 
 
ARIFA "T^E TREE OF LIGHT" 
 
 To throne me o'er Granada!" — Stricken 
 
 dumb 
 They paused an instant — then the scimitar 
 Clove him in twain ! — Thus rose the drip- 
 ping star 
 Of Abu-Said ! — Nay, he gives no thought 
 To us, with ice they say his veins are 
 
 fraught ; 
 To rule is his sole madness; but 'tis said 
 King Pedro's name eats up his heart with 
 
 dread. 
 And as for me — what monarch comes or 
 
 goes, — 
 My life must be the same within this close 
 Of domes and gardens. Still the poets sing 
 Arifa's fate — of her whose broken wing 
 Hath doomed her to a cage; yea, still at 
 
 eve 
 Across the ramparts come wild songs that 
 
 leave 
 My heart a-thirsting for the mountain 
 
 streams, 
 And then I smile — and sometimes weep — 
 
 o'er dreams. 
 
 79 
 
MURILLO PAINTS "THE ASSUMP- 
 TION" 
 
 Scene in Seville in the year i66^, the 
 house of Don Bartolome Murillo on the 
 Plaza de Alfaro; in the sunshiny, white 
 patio, with bright flowers in pots, birds in 
 wicker cages, and a tall palm-tree visible 
 over the rooftop. 
 
 Murillo, about forty-eight years old, is 
 standing at work before his easel. His 
 model, Rufina, about eighteen years old, is 
 posed on a raised platform, her robe of 
 light blue and her hands crossed on her 
 breast. At a rear corner of the patio sits 
 Dona Juanela, an old woman in a black 
 dress and plain veil, her hands busy with 
 her large red rosary-beads. Strumming of 
 a guitar is heard from the street outside 
 and then singing in the African-Gipsy 
 manner, the voice of Anton : 
 80 
 
"THE ASSUMPTION" 
 
 You must never leave the songbird 
 Nor the woman quite alone; 
 
 The bird, because the cat is wary; 
 The woman, for the lover^s tone. 
 
 MURILLO 
 
 You hear, Juanela, what the singer 
 
 chants ? 
 What are your ceaseless prayers compared 
 
 with his? 
 This endless singing of our streets and 
 
 squares 
 Will drive me mad! — 
 Juanela 
 
 It is the world 
 And spring, Don Bartolome. They will 
 
 chirp 
 Until the nests are ready — or the grave! 
 We old souls have sung, and now must 
 
 hear 
 The others' songs — with patience of the 
 
 skies. 
 
 MURILLO 
 
 I would I knew some quarter of our land 
 Where I might 'scape the sound! They 
 call it Love ! — 
 Si 
 
MURILLO PAINTS 
 
 Love ! — ^that whole day long, and every 
 
 day 
 It sounds but more monotonous. 'Twould 
 
 seem 
 The only voice our Seville knows by heart. 
 They say, within the North, that cap and 
 
 bells 
 Become us Andalusians best! Indeed 
 In other lands it is the saddest hearts 
 That do the singing; we are sad, it seems. 
 Who make our trivial songs our constant 
 
 joys; 
 Grief hides our crown of thorns 'neath cap 
 
 and bells I — 
 
 JUANELA 
 
 Birds in their cages. sing in spite of bars; 
 Then, too, Rufina is both young and fair, 
 Don Bartolome — 
 
 MURILLO 
 
 Did you say Rufina — 
 This singing is for her? — 
 
 JUANELA 
 
 'Tis Anton's voice. 
 
 MURILLO 
 
 This twiddle-twaddle that has plunked all 
 spring 
 
 82 
 
"THE ASSUMPTION" 
 
 Outside my gate ! — Then surely you have 
 
 failed, 
 Juanela, that It should occur ! — 
 
 JUANELA 
 
 In faith 
 Maestro, you have set me to a task 
 Too great ; we fight against the spring and 
 youth ! 
 
 MURILLO 
 
 Have I not told you that Rufina must 
 Make visits to the nuns of Santa-Cruz; 
 Must take communion daily, and to prayer 
 Give all her leisure? 
 Juanela 
 
 Even so, Senor, 
 Love will have speech as it has eyes in 
 
 spring. 
 And there are lovers here who look In 
 
 heaven 
 To find embrace and kisses — even our 
 
 saints. 
 And monks and nuns enamored of the 
 
 skies! — 
 
 MURILLO 
 
 Hush, hush, Juanela ! Mock not at the 
 loves 
 
 83 
 
MURILLO PAINTS 
 
 Our mystics know! But surely you must 
 
 see 
 It is important to my plan for her 
 That she accord in life of perfectness 
 With our Immaculate Mother's. Ten 
 
 times now 
 My brush has striven to show our Virgin 
 
 Queen 
 Of Heaven among the clouds on high 
 
 transformed, 
 Sinless and perfect in her earthly grace ! — 
 No thought of earthly love must ever come 
 Across my model's mind to mar the dream 
 My soul would build upon her I Through 
 
 my griefs 
 And prayers my art has come into this sun 
 Of joy celestial. At the Brotherhood 
 Of our Don Miguel have I learnt the 
 
 glooms 
 Of penance and the tragedies of Faith; 
 My shadows are the bone-black from the 
 
 pots 
 Our Andalusians burn. Besides I read 
 My Pictor Christianus and the Faria 
 Commensuracion and Valverde's guide. 
 84 
 
"THE ASSUMPTION" 
 
 You see, I do not scorn Pacheco's law; — 
 "Our Lady must be painted in the flower 
 Of twelve or thirteen years; with sweet, 
 
 grave eyes, 
 And nose and mouth of perfect form; and 
 
 hair 
 A flow of finest gold." — Then, too, he 
 
 says : — 
 "Clothe her in blue and white; the cycle 
 
 moon 
 Beneath her like a reaping hooli." 
 
 Sometimes, 
 Indeed, have I neglected to include 
 The crown of stars and the Franciscan 
 
 cord 
 That Sister Beatrix de Silva saw 
 In her great vision, — for, methinks, the 
 
 sons 
 Of the Assisian lay too grasping hands 
 Upon the gates of heaven. Here then 
 
 you have 
 The Dogma and the poem of our true 
 Redemption, — beautifully seen and told! 
 There's none, they say, has rivalled me in 
 
 this. 
 
MURILLO PAINTS 
 
 JUANELA 
 
 Don Bartolome's work, they say, is both 
 Divine in art and in the ways of Faith. 
 
 MURILLO 
 
 You know, Juanela, how I've striven here 
 For perfect lightness of the floating 
 
 form, — 
 For lift of draperies, — for angelic hues — 
 Have I not turned these cherub forms 
 
 around 
 A thousand times to catch an airy rise 
 And ecstasy? Long have I striven, and 
 
 yet 
 Until today the vision has been far 
 Beyond my brush's reach ! — Then — ^then, 
 This music from the street, — this talk of 
 
 love 
 For my Rufina ! — 
 Juanela 
 
 Senor, you must see 
 The girl is growing up; she cannot stand 
 Forever on this pedestal of yours ! 
 
 MURILLO 
 
 Let her have patience: I will pay her 
 
 dower 
 To join the nuns of Santa-Cruz. 
 86 
 
"THE ASSUMPTION" 
 
 JUANELA 
 
 Don Bartolome, no; I find she dreams 
 In spite of all your plans of other love. 
 
 MURILLO 
 
 So, it has come, — reality declares 
 My work must finish and today. And so 
 My last "Assumption" now is fully done I 
 Here do I leave my gospel word, so Time 
 Shall not forget the dreams our century 
 Has woven in Faith! Mine, too, will be a 
 
 note 
 Of joy, such as old Urban Seventh spoke 
 Admonishing, "Faith to sing, and Hope to 
 
 dance. 
 And Charity to leap with Joy!" Quick, 
 
 there, 
 Rufina, take the pose ! — I'll finish now ! — 
 Smile, dream of heaven, of purity, of 
 
 light!— 
 Now, dear Fray Luis, let me sing with 
 
 you — 
 "O turn thine eyes, O Tender, 
 O Loving/ — ere dost leave 
 This vale whose flowery splendor 
 Masks but a waste where grieve 
 The outcast sons of Eve! 
 87 
 
MURILLO PAINTS 
 
 "And when thy gentle vision 
 
 Hath marked their dismal plight, 
 
 Thou, — on thy way elysiam — 
 Mayst trail them in thy flight, 
 
 Heaven's Lode-Star, to the Light!" 
 
 (Murillo falls on his knees and is lost in 
 
 an ecstasy before his painting.) 
 
 JUANELx'V (to RuFINA) 
 
 Take off the blue cloak! Hurry, little 
 
 one, 
 Anton will be impatient at the gate. 
 Quick, let's be off! — Hark, there he sings 
 
 again ! — 
 Anton (Singing outside the house.) 
 "Thou art like the driven snow, 
 
 And I, the dread volcano's blast; 
 Shall thy whiteness melting flow, 
 
 Or my fire be quenched at last?" 
 
 88 
 
MOTHER GOOSE SONNETS 
 
 To Mother Goose 
 
 Ah, rare old nurse of poets, now so 
 scorned 
 By hasty bards and followers of isms 
 Who leave thy breast for metrical 
 abysms. 
 And grewsome moods and passions un- 
 adorned, — 
 Would that these twanging lyrists might 
 be warned 
 Back to thy lessons from their naughty 
 
 schisms. 
 And set to con the rhythmic catechisms 
 Wherein thou hid'st the wisdom earth has 
 mourned I 
 
 Would— first of women in the ranks of 
 song! — 
 Mother of mystic and of symbohstl^ 
 Thou couldst return to these, and bring 
 along 
 
 89 
 
MOTHER GOOSE SONNETS 
 
 Thy pap and gruel now so sorely 
 
 missed, — 
 Thy saving humor (should it still 
 
 exist!), 
 Thy breath of youthlands, and thine elfin 
 
 throng I 
 
 HUMPTY DUMPTY 
 
 Clown-monarch of the nursery, thy name 
 Too long is silent on the sonnet's tongue, 
 The while our bards sophisticate have 
 sung 
 
 Thy cousin Pierrot and his deeds to fame ! 
 
 Is't air of carnival thou lackst? — a dame. 
 
 Like Columbine, to interest the young 
 
 With that "lovejrinterest" that is set 
 
 among 
 
 The chief requirements of the author's 
 
 game? 
 
 Kings prove, they say, their greatness In 
 their fall. 
 So thou, mad bumpkin from the moon, 
 hast shown 
 
 90 
 
MOTHER GOOSE SONNETS 
 
 Thy merriment to childish eyes alone 
 That hall thy tumble as a royal flight, — 
 Little barbarians, with no thought at all 
 To sympathize, or keep a face polite ! 
 
 Little Miss Moffet 
 
 Her opera chaperon was heard to say, — 
 "Miss Moffet's nerves, you know, were 
 
 quite unstrung 
 Because a spider — when she was quite 
 young — 
 Sat down to join her at her curds and 
 
 whey. 
 The specialists declared to our dismay 
 Her life Itself upon the balance hung; 
 Since even the shock, they said, of being 
 stung 
 Could hardly worse upon her system play." 
 
 And as the music died away, there came 
 Into the box a monster with a name 
 Renowned of old — but now for debts 
 known wider — 
 Miss Moffett's little face looked pleased 
 and vain, 
 
 91 
 
MOTHER GOOSE SONNETS 
 
 We saw that they had cured her nervous 
 strain, 
 As Prince Tarantula sat down beside 
 her. 
 
 The Sprats 
 
 Oh, happiest of mortals, in an age 
 Of legal separation and divorce ! — 
 How many hear your story in re- 
 morse I — 
 Would Jack were patron-saint of husbands 
 
 sage; 
 That thou, madame, could wifely thoughts 
 engage, 
 Till maids and bachelors should have 
 
 recourse 
 As pilgrims to your platter, as a source 
 Of grace that would their marriage qualms 
 assuage ! 
 
 Thus Time would canonize your names 
 
 benign, 
 Bards name you in the Daphn,is-Chloe 
 line. 
 And realists proclaim you glorious I 
 92 
 
MOTHER GOOSE SONNETS 
 
 Stoic and cynic, too, would stand aside 
 In awe before the maxim you provide,- 
 "Non disputandum est de gustibus." 
 
 The Philosophers 
 
 "To bed," says Sleepy-Head the sybarite; 
 
 "Let's stay awhile," says fatalistic Slow; 
 
 "Put on the pot, we'll sup before we 
 go," 
 Says Greedy-Sot, Falstaffian polite. 
 And on the bed the first enjoys the night; 
 
 The second tarries in the chimney-glow, 
 
 The glutton fills the pot to overflow, 
 And eats until his jaws refuse to bite. 
 
 But see, between the crannies of the door, 
 
 The sunrise glinting on the tavern floor, 
 
 Ere from the hills, the cocks have 
 
 ceased to crow! 
 
 Hark! Hark! — the knocker beats a loud 
 
 tatto, — 
 "Who's there without?"— "Death!"— 
 "Death, and who are you?" 
 "Unbar the door and each of you shall 
 know!" 
 
 93 
 
MOTHER GOOSE SONNETS 
 
 Black Sheep 
 
 Bah, bah, old critics, have you any wool 
 To spare a little poet down the lane? 
 They say he's crying — poets will com- 
 plain ! — 
 Because he hears that you have three bags 
 
 full. 
 One for your master — old book-seUing 
 bull!— 
 One for your dame. (For rhyme's 
 
 sake, call her vain !) 
 They say that all the other can contain 
 You need into the Public's eyes to pull. 
 
 Why should you bother with the puling 
 
 boy? — 
 
 One little bah can drown his pipings 
 
 quite ! 
 
 Nay, but your master, if you should annoy, 
 
 Can sheer a black fleece off as well as 
 
 white. 
 So when you would your smallest bah em- 
 ploy, 
 Make sure he finds it modulated right. 
 94 
 
MOTHER GOOSE SONNETS 
 
 To Banbury Cross 
 "A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a 
 horse 1" 
 And off, where Banbury's young woman 
 
 springs 
 With tinkling hosiery and finger rings 
 Upon her snow-white hobby round the 
 
 course ! 
 Fling Shakespeare down, and as for prob- 
 lems Norse, 
 To grandma leave the Ibsen-Bjornson 
 
 things ! — 
 A pair of ankles Is as' good as wings 
 Dramatic or poetic tours de force. 
 
 There shall be music, too, where'er she 
 
 goes. 
 
 Not such as Wagner's endless scores 
 
 beget, 
 
 But warbling of the strings and piccolos 
 
 In rhythms that gladden ballet and sou- 
 
 brette — 
 Till worries, duties, arts, and such, are 
 set 
 As naught beside the magic beat of toes. 
 
 95 
 
MOTHER GOOSE SONNETS 
 
 Bo-Peep 
 
 Vergil, Theocritus and Tasso, each 
 
 Had glimpse of you; canson and pas- 
 
 torelle 
 In rarer times essayed your charm to 
 tell; 
 Watteau and Fragonard took brush to 
 
 teach 
 Their age what light Volture empearled In 
 speech ; 
 Till In the Trianon's embowered cell, 
 Enraptured of your grace, a Queen 
 would dwell 
 From royal state afar, and sorrow's reach. 
 
 Now our old world Is weary of Its arts, 
 And wig and furbelow are put away. 
 Mankind delights but In the simpler parts 
 And winsome touches of a newer day; 
 And so, Bo-Peep, from Saxe and Sevres, 
 we stray 
 To nursery paths where first you won our 
 hearts. 
 
 96 
 
MOTHER GOOSE SONNETS 
 
 Madam O'Shoe 
 
 To none of our best sections a la mode 
 Her family gave umbrage by its size; 
 In fact, wise genealogists surmise 
 'Twas some old shoe that served them for 
 
 abode. 
 Of course this happened ere the Building 
 Code 
 And the wondering world saw "Moth- 
 ers' Clubs" arise, 
 For specialists of microscopic eyes 
 Pooh-pooh the form of treatment she be- 
 stowed. 
 
 How artless ! truly, how unsterilized ! — 
 
 The way she fed and sent them whipt to 
 bed! 
 
 (The very thought gives pedagogic 
 shocks 1) 
 And yet her boys for brain and brawn 
 were prized, 
 
 Her girls such beauties they were quick- 
 ly wed. 
 
 And now are numbered with our best of 
 stocks. 
 
 97 
 
MOTHER GOOSE SONNETS 
 
 One Contrary 
 
 Mary, Mary, why these cockle shells, 
 And pretty maidens standing In a row? 
 For once your Monna Lisa smile forego 
 And soberly explain these silver bells. 
 We've borne your purple cabbage, aspho- 
 dels, 
 Madonnas, nudes, and Breton peasants, 
 so 
 For pity's sake, be simple, let us know 
 If dear Kate Greenaway In your memory 
 dwells? 
 
 Pray why, amid your raptures on Chavan- 
 nes, 
 Rodin and Beardsley, Manet and 
 
 Burne-Jones, 
 Should she be quite unmentioned in your 
 tones? 
 You pause? — and sadly our poor faces 
 scan? 
 Then In your Botticelli robes sweep by, 
 Fixing a "Holy Grail" in either eye. 
 98 
 
MOTHER GOOSE SONNETS 
 
 Boy Blue. 
 
 Your little horn was heard by Tennyson, 
 And Romney sketched you as you lay 
 
 asleep; 
 While in a fashion dating from Bo- 
 Peep, 
 Your flocks untended through the pastures 
 
 run. 
 How soon, O nursery Endymion, 
 
 Across your haymow did the shadows 
 
 creep I 
 How soon the hours like wayward cows 
 and sheep, 
 Stole from your side until your youth was 
 donel 
 
 Did then some godlike rapture wing you 
 
 high 
 To far emprise? Or did some maiden's 
 
 kiss 
 Lead you on duty's pathways unto bliss? 
 Or from that hour did childhood's bloom 
 
 decay 
 
 99 
 
MOTHER GOOSE SONNETS 
 
 From out your heart — ^the vision, from 
 your eye — 
 Save in some mother's memory — pass 
 away? 
 
 On The Tree-Top 
 
 Rockaby, Baby, — mother must be gone, 
 For club-elections will begin at eight; 
 Tonight the incubator-stove can wait, 
 I've hardly time to get my bonnet on. 
 When the wind blows our sky-scrape flat 
 upon 
 'Twill rock your cradle, and should I be 
 
 late, 
 Ring up the elevator, dear, and state 
 What time you'll have your breakfast-food 
 to John. 
 
 Rockaby, Baby, when we meet again, 
 Who knows, but I shall be the Right- 
 Supreme — 
 Grand-President of Mothers — I can't 
 lose ! — 
 Ah, darling, won't .we both be happy 
 then? — ( 
 
 lOQ 
 
MOTHER GOOSE SONNETS 
 
 With editors to serve you with your 
 
 cream, 
 And watch your cradle, while I write 
 
 my "views" 1 
 
 Mother Hubbard 
 
 Good Hubbard, who can tell thy poodle'§ 
 
 plight 
 
 Save Humperdinck in mimic roundelay? 
 
 Who paint thy cupboard but Teniers? 
 
 — Portray 
 
 Thy homely features but Franz Halz by 
 
 right ? 
 As for the bone — delicious oversight 
 Of scribe and painter ! — shall the annals 
 
 say 
 'Twas stolen by the thieves or elves 
 away, 
 Or by the canine pharisee at night? 
 
 Yet food is here for thinking! We who 
 
 wait 
 Impatient for some cupboard to unclose, 
 Mayhap already have licked clean the 
 
 plate 
 
 lOI 
 
MOTHER GOOSE SONNETS 
 
 Of life and Idly dream upon the bone, 
 Until Dame Fortune, like old Hubbard, 
 
 throws 
 Her coffers wide, to show our treasure 
 
 flown 1 
 
 1 02 
 
IN THE CAFE EUROPA 
 
 A SUDDEN shower and all of us were 
 trapped 
 
 In the cafe; they slammed the doors to 
 shut 
 
 The rain out; and the great throng 
 
 Went on eating its breakfast or its lunch, 
 
 For it was eleven in the morning 
 
 And the lazy ones met the early ones 
 
 At different ends of their day's work. 
 
 The wild chatter of voices 
 
 Went on unhushed by the rainfall; Spani- 
 ard, 
 
 Blackman and Indian, all with the grim- 
 aces 
 
 Of Central and lower Europe; 
 
 Distinguished official sefiores, gallant sol- 
 diers in khaki, 
 
 Putting five tablespoons of sugar In a demi- 
 tasse; 
 
 103 
 
IN THE CAFE EUROPA 
 
 Muscular Gallcians with small heads and 
 
 fleshy shoulders; 
 Beautiful eyes out of Africa as well as 
 
 Spain; 
 Golden skins of the Conqulstadores burnt 
 By tropic suns and tropic bloods to the 
 
 shades 
 Of creamy browns and dusky reds. 
 And the voices chatter In the raucous burr 
 Of Spain, with overslnging of Indian tones 
 And melting falls learned In the jungles 
 From the escaped slaves of old. 
 Here the fine logic of the renaissance, 
 The spirit of the Fray Lulses and Queve- 
 
 dos 
 Is used to discuss the world-war, 
 The reports of the railroad commissions 
 Or the new steps of Maruxa, 
 The beauty from the alleyways of Cama- 
 
 guey. 
 Soon again the rain Is over. 
 And a sun from the golden book of Sevilla 
 Breaks through the clouds, lighting anew 
 Its candle of memories of the past, — 
 Of a Sevilla without a Cathedral, 
 A Sevilla without an Alcazar, — 
 104 
 
IN THE CAF6 EUROPA 
 
 A Habana with her blue sea like a Vega 
 
 around her, 
 Her golden-shaded people, 
 Her American heart and Latin genius, 
 Her love of liberty and native land. 
 Her tourists in their new Panama hats, 
 Her tolerance, her anti-Clericals 
 With blessed medals pinned to their un- 
 dershirts, 
 Her adorable sinners 1 — 
 There they throng out again 
 Into the sun and the narrow streets, 
 Dodging automobiles and trolley-cars, 
 Glad in the sunshine, glad in the life 
 And stimulation of her wines and coffee. 
 Of her theaters, her hai-alai and opera- 
 houses, 
 Her Prado and Malacon and race-track, — 
 Glad in the ghost-light of her liberty, 
 For which her dusky revolutionists 
 Fought and died, starved and suffered 
 
 prison. 
 For which her poets sighed and sang. 
 Her mothers wept and prayed, — 
 Glad in the impending compromise 
 That will make of Cuba 
 105 
 
IN THE CAFE EUROPA 
 
 A crowned land of pleasure, 
 An arc-light amid the Antilles, 
 The center of our continental literature, 
 The capital of Pan-America I 
 
 La Habana, Cuba. 19 19. 
 
 106 
 
THE SAVING VIRTUES 
 
 It's this way, sir; — 
 You see how her 
 
 And me ain't had a bite, sir; — 
 I'm sure you can, — 
 Kind gentleman, — 
 
 Oblige us with a mite, sir? 
 A sixpence! — Thanks, 
 Kind friend. There's cranks 
 
 Insult the likes of me, sir, 
 When I shows them Mag, 
 And starts to brag 
 
 About her pedigree, sir. 
 But a gentleman knows 
 How fashions goes 
 
 With a fine hard-workin' lass, sir,- 
 A trifle heady — 
 A bit unsteady — 
 
 But the virtues of her class, sir. 
 There's them who say 
 Hard things today 
 
 107 
 
THE SAVING VIRTUES 
 
 About old Mag, — I'll own, sir; 
 It's false report — 
 She's a decent sort — 
 
 She never drinks alone, sir. 
 
 1 08 
 
THE WIDOWY DRONE 
 
 The Widow Malone 
 Of the Town of Athlone, 
 Since her Owen was thrown 
 From his Donnybrook roan 
 On his cerebral bone — 
 (Bad cess to the stone!) — 
 Not a sigh was she known 
 To let out, nor a groan 
 (Not even "ochone!" 
 Did the creature entone!). 
 But when Shamus McKeown 
 From the Neo-Celt zone 
 Of the Bois de Boulogne 
 Came to ogle and drone 
 O'er her teacup and scone, 
 She'ld say "Whist ye, my own, 
 I'm a poor decent crone, — 
 Play no 'Darby and Joan' 
 With the Widow Malone." 
 
 109 
 
AN AUTUMN SONG 
 
 The days of June and budding youth are 
 over — 
 This is the season of our middle-age; 
 We've had our share of roses and of 
 clover, 
 And Autumn's embonpoint is all our 
 wage; 
 Still let the glass be filled, for old October 
 Shall hear our praises down his echoes 
 wing; 
 Youth is intoxicate and we are sober — 
 Any old bird can sing in spring. 
 
 Our nests are empty and the waists so 
 slender 
 We've hugged as lads are now substan- 
 tial grown; 
 Our visionings to grayish fact surrender; 
 Life has assumed a smooth monotonous 
 tone. 
 
 no 
 
AN AUTUMN SONG 
 
 But Art is long — the Idle little poet 
 
 Outlasts the coin that at his head they 
 fling; 
 Time's short — our fellow minstrel boys 
 now show it — 
 Any old bird can sing in spring. 
 
 Of Phyllis and her tombstone quite suf- 
 ficent 
 Our youthtime sang; of dreadful sins 
 and crime 
 Our babbling lips have raised a note om- 
 niscient 
 And Death has gibed us with a calmer 
 time; 
 Surely the subtler moods have bowed and 
 left us 
 To snoring slumber and cool visioning; 
 Yet of the song think not they have bereft 
 us — 
 Any old bird can sing in spring. 
 
 So fare ye well, ye imagings pubescent, 
 
 Ye "virile" idols and symbolic ills I 
 Our youngsters hereabouts are not quies- 
 cent 
 
 III 
 
AN AUTUMN SONG 
 
 But pipe your chants and add a thousand 
 trills. 
 For us the organ note of fate sonorous, — 
 The mild beatitudes that age shall 
 bring; 
 Let's draw the nighttime blanket snugly 
 o'er us — 
 Any old bird can sing in spring. 
 
 112 
 
THE SEA-WOMAN 
 
 Pale his cheek — his step is slow, 
 The fisher-lad of David's Cave; 
 
 Only the waves his strong arm know 
 Where his oars the black tides brave. 
 
 Silent he goes and his eye is sad; 
 
 He comes no more to the crossroad's 
 dance; 
 No maid on the coast his troth has had, 
 
 No maid on the hills his glance. 
 
 But at noon when the sea is smooth and 
 still 
 He turns his boat to the cavern's shade, 
 Where chained and waiting his savage 
 will 
 A white sea-woman is laid. 
 
 Caught in the rocks she has screamed and 
 torn 
 Her wonderful hair and her eyes are 
 red 
 
 113 
 
THE SEA-WOMAN 
 
 From the tears and the shame her body 
 has borne, 
 And the pride of her heart is dead. 
 
 "O Tegid, Tegid," she chants him there, 
 "Lad of the burning mouth and eyes, 
 
 Of the splendid shoulders and ruddy hair, 
 Let me answer my people's cries — 
 
 "Let me free of the gloom of David's 
 Cave, 
 Let me out again in the fields of the 
 deep; 
 They mourn for me upon every wave — 
 They watch and wait without sleep 1" 
 
 And the fisher-lad her chains released 
 And pointed forth to the open sea; 
 
 "Begone," he said, "my love hath ceased; 
 You are no kin to me !" 
 
 And now she follows his boat afar, 
 
 And winds herself in his nets by night; 
 
 His thoughts are of one on the harbor bar 
 And the joys of the homing light. 
 114 
 
THE SEA-WOMAN 
 
 But she is pale with the dashing foam, 
 And her voice is faint and hoarse and 
 strange ; 
 
 She pines in vain and returns not home 
 Where the white sea-women range. 
 
 "^ 
 
THE BROWN-STONE ROW 
 
 It stretches down my memory 
 Like a long brown valley 
 High and narrow — 
 
 The old street with brown-stone houses 
 Where our boyhood's days were passed. 
 There were trees and grassplots — 
 For the old street was in Brooklyn — 
 But they do not make the memory more 
 
 lifelike — 
 It seemed as though we were in some 
 
 museum 
 Of Egyptian relics, and the high walls 
 Of papier-mache were shutting out the 
 
 actualities 
 And leaving us to a sort of existence 
 In an artificial atmosphere. 
 I remember, too, the strangely assorted 
 
 people 
 Who lived on our street; 
 There was the old maid's house 
 Where a baseball was in danger 
 ii6 
 
THE BROWN-STONE ROW 
 
 Of being seized if it should fall that way; 
 
 There was the house, half-furnished, 
 
 Of the Army officer whose daughter 
 
 Was singing in light-opera, who had 
 
 Wonderful books and fine furniture, but no 
 shades 
 
 To screen the windows; there was the 
 family 
 
 From South America with the growing boy 
 
 Who used to regale us with scandalous 
 tales 
 
 About all the young girls in our neighbor- 
 hood; 
 
 There was the Jewish family, fat and 
 well-fed, 
 
 Who gave splendid concerts in summer- 
 time 
 
 When the windows were open; 
 
 There was also the negro servant-boy who 
 sang 
 
 In a splendid falsetto voice; and the young 
 
 girl, 
 
 Delicate and pale, who drove out with her 
 Shetland pony; 
 
 And the Scotchman, dignified and minis- 
 terial, 
 
 117 
 
THE BROWN-STONE ROW 
 
 Who used to come home staggering at 
 
 times ; 
 And the well-to-do clerk who remarried 
 After years of widowhood and had new 
 
 babies, much tp the disgust 
 Of his son who rode so rapidly on two 
 
 wheels 
 Of his velocipede that we thought him an 
 
 inspired creature; 
 There was the old eccentric, whom we 
 
 afterward found out to be 
 A famous comic poet of wartimes, 
 Who would never pass by a piece of paper 
 
 on the street 
 Without picking it up ; 
 And the rich milkman's lovely daughters 
 Who leaned all day out of the windows 
 Chattering to the neighborhood boys; — 
 What became of them all, I wonder, the 
 
 boys and the girls? — 
 The old people are dead, certainly — 
 But how much did our old brown-stone 
 
 row 
 Contribute to life at large? Who sur- 
 vived it? 
 
CATULLUS ANENT HIS LESBIA 
 
 There's Lesbia, vowing she would rather 
 Be mine, than that Almighty Father 
 
 Jove besought her! — 
 Swearing it, — yet, sublime deceiver, 
 She hardly hopes we shall believe her; 
 
 Since girls who plight such pledges write 
 On air and water. 
 
 119 
 
GUITAR SONG 
 
 To the lyre my fingers throw 
 
 Songs I would the world should know. 
 
 Though my songs from lip to lip 
 Float like butterflies that sip 
 Sweetness down a vale of roses, 
 Think not that my heart reposes; 
 Nay, it is my heart's own beating 
 The guitar doth keep repeating. 
 But the singer's breast will beat 
 With a throb no songs repeat, 
 So while love the lyre is telling, 
 The guitar remains his dwelling. 
 
 To the lyre my fingers throw 
 
 Songs I would the world should know. 
 
 120 
 
TO JOYCE KILMER— JULY 30, 191 8 
 
 Buried at the Wood of the Burned Bridge, 
 near Seringes on the Ourcq 
 
 The moon tonight looks on another 
 mound, — 
 Merely another of the heaps of clod 
 And stones that stretch behind the battle- 
 ground, — 
 Another shadow and a cross of God. 
 
 Afar, around, the giant guns are heard 
 Booming their challenge to the shrink- 
 ing foe; 
 And underground the bodies still are 
 stirred 
 With tremors that the dead alone can 
 know. 
 
 For the great fight goes on, not yet all 
 won. 
 For all the valor folded into rest; 
 121 
 
TO JOYCE KILMER— JULY 30, 191 8 
 
 Blood on the morn, blood on the setting 
 sun 
 Signals the rallying forces to their quest. 
 
 And he and they, untimely hurried down 
 That josthng thoroughfare of Death's 
 domain, 
 Live in the shout, strike in the melee 
 brown. 
 And spread defiance from their ghostly 
 reign. 
 
 Their hearts are hot, no coldness yet hath 
 seized 
 Their limbs though shattered and reject 
 they lie ; 
 Their prayers, their dreams still live, as 
 though it pleased 
 Death that the fighter not entirely die. 
 
 And you, O friend, O brother of gay years, 
 
 There in the moonlight stretching calm 
 
 and wise, — 
 
 Lo, the lament for you ! — our idle tears 
 
 Heavy with pride and grief within our 
 
 eyes! 
 
 122 
 
TO JOYCE KILMER— JULY 30, 1918 
 
 You who put off the world and its allure, 
 Its pomp and pose, to be an honest 
 man; 
 You who were ten times strong, whose 
 heart was pure, 
 A Christian hero, poet, artisan I 
 
 There was a Michael in you who could 
 
 slay 
 
 The demon errors of nefarious schools; 
 
 There was a Martin who could give away 
 
 Half of his cloak despite the jeer of 
 
 fools. 
 
 There was a Joan with mystic eyes ablaze 
 To seize the Cross-hilt sword and lead 
 the fight; 
 Dreams of the saints and angels made 
 your days 
 And all the world around you full of 
 light. 
 
 Child of the stoled princes of the past, 
 Brother of all the lowly in the soil, 
 123 
 
TO JOYCE KILMER— JULY 30, 191 8 
 
 Among the Fishers were your deep nets 
 cast, 
 With the Assisian was your song of 
 toil. 
 
 And from your heart with its seraphic 
 flame 
 Sounded a paean of the streets and 
 squares; 
 A chant of glory from obeisance came, 
 Making the trench into a heavenly 
 stairs. 
 
 Long, long, shall we remember you, the 
 pride 
 And unattended blessing of our 
 throng — 
 "An angel unaware" was at our side, 
 And we half-knowing gladdened at your 
 song. 
 
 Listening half-attentive as we heard 
 Music whose saintly purport scarce we 
 caught, 
 As of the note that some enraptured birH 
 Amid the storm-swept forests useless 
 brought. 
 
 124 
 
TO JOYCE KILMER— JULY 30, 191 8 
 
 But now, with all your promise and your 
 youth 
 Swept from us to that heavenly citadel 
 Where reign the Light, the Love, the Joy, 
 the Truth 
 Of which your heart intuitive could 
 spell. — 
 
 We shall proclaim you man and citizen, 
 Perfect and consecrate and catholic; 
 
 The voice to sing the song of man to 
 men, — 
 Poet of God's designed world politic. 
 
 We shall proclaim you model of our day 
 
 For weakling Christian and renunclant 
 
 heart; 
 
 Our tears — our Idle tears — we brush away, 
 
 And from your strength, new strength 
 
 and courage start. 
 
 1 25] 
 
THE SIGH FOR DEIRDRE 
 
 As the proud bards mused in their manes 
 of snow 
 A trembling stole over the harp's gold 
 frame, 
 When the north-wind blew through their 
 ponderings 
 The gust on the strings that told her 
 name. 
 
 On their couches high lay monarch, chief, 
 And scribe in grief and pined away 
 
 In ancient sigh, and because of her 
 
 Fell from the stir and the light of day. 
 
 And now, when the rain of the night has 
 ceased 
 On the dripping eaves and the glow- 
 worms streak 
 The meadows with stains as of burning 
 tears, — 
 What peasant but peers for her fairy 
 cheek? — 
 
 126 
 
THE SIGH FOR DEIRDRE 
 
 For them who fare o'er the lochs alone, 
 Or watch and moan by the holy wells, 
 
 Wan fingers prepare in the crystal deeps 
 What the bosom keeps and no lips tells. 
 
 Out by the stars, like a lost soul dis- 
 traught, 
 
 At the thought of her eyes, I am seized 
 with a song 
 
 Human utterance mars; all the chords of 
 my soul 
 
 Trembling mad with the roll that far ages 
 prolpng. 
 
 By the curve of her mouth, by her shoul- 
 ders soft white 
 I am slain with delight; yea, she haunts 
 each lone place 
 From the north to the south, like the 
 dream of a child. 
 And the dawn and the wild-roses strive 
 for her face. 
 
 127 
 
THE MOTHERS OF HEAVEN 
 
 The mothers of heaven In starry throng- 
 ing came 
 
 Unto the Throne Most High, complaining 
 
 That 'mid their bliss and rapturous ac- 
 claim 
 
 Their hearts found only loneliness in 
 reigning : — 
 
 "Lord, we are but poor foolish mothers 
 after all 
 
 Thy welcome and Thy coronal " 
 
 Then forth The Voice o'er heaven: 
 
 "O Gabriel of Archangels, dost not know 
 
 That these are mothers? — Go, 
 
 Ransack the worlds and skies 
 
 Until to each be given 
 
 Her deathless prize 1" 
 
 And Gabriel hurled 
 
 Himself from off the infinite crest 
 
 Where night swept round the world; 
 
 Until, fulfilled at last 
 128 
 
THE MOTHERS OF HEAVEN 
 
 The Will Omnipotent, unto the gate 
 
 Of Paradise the mothers passed 
 
 In pageantry most rare, 
 
 And claimed victorious there 
 
 The maimed, and weak, and reprobate, 
 
 The failure, grief, and sin. 
 
 The children of their breast. 
 
 And bore their broken toys of life as 
 trophies in 
 
 Along the mornlit Forum of the Blest. 
 
 The empyrean hushed, — far wonderment 
 
 On radiant saint and angel fell 
 
 As the Hosannas ceased, and they behold- 
 ing bent 
 
 And hearkened from the midnight's 
 gloomy well 
 
 The world's faint laughter mocking at the 
 Throne 
 
 Where on unshaken firmament 
 
 God mused alone. 
 
 129 
 
AD LIMINA 
 
 She lingered near the gates of heaven 
 Although the Angels waved her on 
 
 Unto the Throne where bent the Seven 
 At their eternal antiphon. 
 
 She saw the happy mortals enter 
 
 To Bliss at last and fold their wings; 
 
 From out the pure Elysian center 
 She heard their joyous gloryings. 
 
 But one came not, though still she waited 
 And held her heaven from her breast, 
 
 Seeking the moment when 'twas fated 
 His spirit too might come to rest. 
 
 The Great Archangel down came flying; — 
 "Why gaze you still toward earth so 
 dim?"— 
 She turned her gentle eyes, replying, — 
 "I must be first to welcome him." 
 130 
 
NIGHTINGALE TO THE LARK 
 
 O STAY, joyous bird, ere thou wlngest 
 
 The dawn to surprise, 
 And weave with the carol thou singest 
 
 The music that sighs; 
 Then swift as the darkness is over 
 Away with the song from the clover, 
 
 And capture the skies I 
 
 131 
 
ALGONKIN SPRING 
 
 It was the gentle Southwind stole the first 
 Around the Winter's lodge of snows; the 
 
 elves 
 Of sunlight then athwart Its glooms re- 
 vived 
 Pale NIpon's breast, and from her trance 
 
 she sighed, — 
 *^Who calls me from Kiwakwa's dread 
 
 embrace?" 
 "We," sighed the streams and rivers; 
 
 moose and deer 
 Came calling through the forests for their 
 
 mates. 
 Her eyes unclosing saw where, in his 
 
 throes. 
 He lay — his witchcraft gone I In vain he 
 
 cried 
 Unto his scattered hosts of sleet and rain, 
 Till in the yellow morn he shrank to 
 
 naught 
 
 132 
 
ALGONKIN SPRING 
 
 And vanished in a bursting stream of tears. 
 Then at her couch the flower of miskodeed 
 Put forth its silver token of the May, 
 And on the branch above a bird began; 
 And she, in tears: "It is the bluebird's 
 
 song, — 
 My childhood comes again at hearing him; 
 He speaks to me of home, and Kmewun's 
 
 eyes, 
 And all the sweet companions of the south. 
 Too long have I bereaved them; I will go 
 And seek the pity of the hills, the grace 
 Of all the vales and rivers of my south I" 
 Swift up and down the streams the gossip 
 
 elves 
 Of sunlight hurried with the glad acclaim. 
 As forth into the sun she fared, with joy 
 Burst out the rivers shouting to the sea. 
 And as she journeyed on the South Wind 
 
 stole 
 To bring her cheeks the crimson of the 
 
 dawn; 
 The sprites of morning twined her hair 
 
 with flowers 
 And wove her garments of the grass and 
 
 leaves ; 
 
 133 
 
ALGONKIN SPRING 
 
 Whilst Kmewun, mother of the rain, alone 
 Went up her highest hills in festival, 
 And o'er the lakes and islands scattered 
 
 showers 
 And shimmering rainbows for her child's 
 
 return. 
 
 134 
 
FULFILMENT 
 
 As that proud bird of eastern story- 
 Did pluck away from Persia's crown 
 
 The gem of wizardry and glory, 
 
 I took my youth from Time's deep 
 frown. 
 
 In splendor shook the bird to heaven — 
 So too my heart outshone the star — 
 
 With burst of song its throat was riven, 
 And glittering fell the gem afar. 
 
 Thus I — O loveliness Elysian, 
 
 Cool brows of dawn, and rose-mouth 
 dreamt upon I — 
 I turn to sing God's manifested vision, 
 
 And find that youth is gonel 
 
 135